


Your Bittersweet Love.

by fearless_seas



Series: We Were Made of Sunshine and Gold [7]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Attempted Sex, Childhood Friends, Drinking, Heartbreak, M/M, Memories, POV Second Person, Partying, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-03 14:27:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16327727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fearless_seas/pseuds/fearless_seas
Summary: Esteban wishes more than anything that he hated Pierre Gasly. But he loves him too much and that's what he hates most about him: how much he doesn't hate him.





	Your Bittersweet Love.

**Author's Note:**

> I got carried away. Most French translations are inferrered in the text but the ones that aren't I'll shoot down at the end! Enjoy!

** February 8th, 2015 || 1:17 a.m. **

****

** _____________________________ **

 

          The road doesn’t have a direction, it never seems to end. The column of dark trees shelter the street and the pale glow of moonlight is the only path seen. You can't find the words to speak and you find yourself at the wheel of your car. Your hands sweat against the wheel, your chin trembles and worried eyes blink into focus. It continues to rise, the bile, up in your throat until you can taste it ready on the back of your tongue. 

          _Keep yourself together, Esteban._

          But you switch gears and pull to a cut off lane where the cars shudders to a stop. The anger comes first, more than anything, the blind-sighting white sense of panic. It flares in your veins, it screams and boils in every bone. Your fist pounds over and over against the steering wheel as near animal sounds erupt in your throat. But then… you pause and falter. Your heart hammers in your chest, the blood rushes in your ears and you hadn’t noticed until then, but you are crying. As though you'd  been pushed on the playground, you crumple like paper in wide, occupied hands. Your fingers throb as you lean your forehead on the dashboard.  An indescribable agony pounds through you; a helpless, lost anxiety of fear and extraordinary anger . Your ears clear and hear yourself: the sobs and unending hiccups hitching your breath.

          It comes like a cycle. Panic, then anger, followed by fear and pain but then, it’s there, a vacant sense of hopelessness. It plays behind your eyes: the simplest of intimate touches. It’s his hand on their hip, not yours, his lips on theirs and not yours… You still can’t breathe. But even after everything, you still saw it coming from miles, and miles away. 

          Miles and miles…

          You grieve over something you fooled yourself into believing that you understood. The alcohol of the evening burns in your gut, your lips shimmer with some type of envy. The party is miles away but you feel it and you feel them too. You can imagine that, in the end all the touches meant something to him. Yet you know deep within you: they didn’t.  That everytime his palm reached the small of your back or the joy in his eyes met yours like two pillars of sun--it never meant a damn thing . So, you sit there, in your car, with your neck thrown back and your throat throbbing with violence. Thinking of only one thing: 

        _I hate you, Pierre_ _ Gasly . _

__

_           But in your heart, it throbs like melody. _

__

_           God, how I wish I did not love you. _

 

** ____________________________ **

****

** February 7th, 2015 || 9:52 p.m. **

 

          Every light in the house is on, illuminating the street. Winter frost clings  eagerly to the dewed grass. You are late, and then again, you have never been quite punctual. Why show to a party before the action has begun? Hands reach to tug your keys from the ignition.  As soon as the car shudders to a halt, the cold creeps in through the cracked window and you shiver into the lapels of your coat . The shouts and chatter radiate from the walls of the home towards you in your front seat. Swallowing  thickly , you reach up to fix your dark hair in your rear-view mirror. Your shadowed eyes are two small beads blinking out from your reflection in the glass.

          “Which way did he say he liked my hair again?”, you mutter to yourself, shoving your trembling fingers through the short tufts  . Does it  really matter to him? You haven’t seen Pierre since before Christmas. The ivory snowflakes had clung to his long eyelashes and his tan cheeks were cherry, frost bitten.

          “Tu te souviens quand j'étais plus grand que toi?”,  _ do you remember when I was taller than you? _ Pierre had spoke with a type of mesmerizing admiration of the past, and yet, a fondness his future.

          You smirked, “Bien sur.” Of course. You want to ask him, why would I forget?  You aren’t one to keep too many memories, but these ones, these small fractions where nothing else matters are what stays with you long after the moment has passed . Pierre’s lips were bright and rose, it contrasted with the dismal, white paradise.

          This brings a smile to your lips now. It frays as you recall:  _ I miss these types of things _ . Sweatshirt sleeves around your neck and warm hands over your eyes. Childish happenings that died with growth, passed with one’s youth.

          A breath rolls off of your tongue, into the open, frozen air. You give a firm nod, “ Pret .” With that, you step out of the car into the late winter air.

_           Age steals youth. It’s not cunning enough,  however , to  retain it. Age recaptures vitality of youth as youth understands the reality of age. _

 

** __________________________________ **

****

** February 5th, 2015 || 2:36 p.m. **

 

          Two days earlier you  were seated in Dorian’s bedroom on the floor with your hands behind your heads. You chase your thoughts on the paint of the ceiling as he clammers away at his playstation.

           “Pierre m'a envoyé un texto aujourd'hui,” you snap the controller towards the left and Dorian lets out an audible shriek of disapproval . 

        “Vraiment?”, there is a smirk in his voice. Disgruntled, you peer across your shoulder. Dorian sits himself cross-legged on the end of his bed.

          “Oui,” frowning you turn back to the screen only to see that you had lost in that fraction of time.

          “Où est-il maintenant?”,  _ where is he now? _

          “Schez lui,”  _ his home _ . Those were the days under the sun. Your eyes filter towards the window. Snowflakes ice the pane as you recall that day when you were children at the go kart. It was  practically a blizzard and not a person had showed to your race. Your parents took the both of you out for hot chocolate afterwards.  Maybe you remember it only because you had won, or that he had shoved snow down the back of your overalls.

          Dorian shuts off the TV and leans back on the mattress, “What did he want?”

          “Jaloux?”, you chuckle, ducking when a pillow  is swung at your head. “He says  un petit ami of his is putting together a little party for his nineteenth birthday.”

          Dorian paused to raise a brow, “And he invited you?”

          You shrug, “Oui.”

          “D’accord,” he smiles with a quick wink, “You’ll have a good time with him--tu le fais toujours . ”

          You always do .

          It’s true.  Even though all the stupid fights and petty arguments, Pierre will always be the blonde-haired, wide-eyed child who chased you around his yard and snuck with you out the window in the dead of night . Those nights always felt like yours. The stars were infinite and rebellion trickled through your veins. But  maybe it was the idea that you weren’t alone under a graveyard of a billion twinkling lights.

          So you smile, “Je sais.”

          Dorian shakes his head and scoups away the auburn curls clinging to his forehead. “You should ask him on a date."

          The casual attitude of it causes your eyes to squint, “Pourquoi?”

          “Parce que tu ne gardes jamais le silence sur lui and because you care about him,” he falls backwards on the bed. “ Maybe you even love--"

          “Arrêter!”, you snap, pushing him roughly away. You pause and rub  nervously at your shoulder (something you are not prone to doing), “It will be too strange.”

          “The gay part is weird to you?”, Dorian  is amused , his thick brows arched in the center of his forehead.

          “What? Non! We’ve known each other since we were tiny kids. That isn’t strange to you?”

          Dorian is two years younger than you and somehow, he is smarter, far wiser than you’re ever going to be. “You have a… thing for your best-friend. Emotions aren’t strange.”  He sighs, “Look at this way, Esteban: you could never know and end up wondering for the rest of your life, or, you could take a chance .”

          You nibble your inner lip. It feels a rather late that after all these years you would finally say something. It seems almost drunk.  You think of that photo stuffed  clumsily in the folds your wallet: Pierre pushing you and your shattered go-kart down the street . Your parents were  extremely upset that day:

          “Qu'as-tu fait de lui?”

          Pierre was tiny back then. He was a year older and you were already taller. But he looked to you then, as you were being scolded by your parents as though you molded his world. Confidence twinkled, he nodded with a grin. It said, somehow:  _ I have this _ . “I crashed,” he had lied as you hid your bloody palms behind your back.

          You asked him later, when he  was grounded for a week, “Why did you do that? Why did you lie for me?”

          There was that smile again. The small one that softened his eyes and heightened his cheeks. “Parce que tu es mon ami,” he was always too mature for his own good. You’re eight years old and you figure:  _ I love you _ . How silly.

          So, ten years later you’re sitting on your other best-friend’s bed. He tells you that you should ask him out. At first you dismiss it although the party sounds intriguing. But you remember those reassuring eyes as Pierre's hands pushed the broken go-kart:

          _I have this_ .

          You turn to that friend, Dorian, and he is waiting as though he knew your answer before it stepped past your teeth. “Bien,” you nod  firmly , “I’ll do it." 

          Later, you wish you had taken a minute to wonder of how the taste of rejection would’ve tasted on your lips. What will stay with you, for a long, long time…

          What you’ll remember later as you sit unable to breathe under the very same stars that used to belong to you and him.

          You and him .

          You two alone.

 

** __________________________ **

****

** February 7th, 2015 || 9:58 p.m. **

 

          The party is already in full swing when you enter the door. The music is so loud that the door remains unlocked so anyone can come in and out. It is a far more crowded than you had imagined, and this isn’t a problem to you but you don’t recognize a single person’s face. The lights are dim, you mutter a few sorrys as you bump through the entrance. It’s a two story house. A small home with a large living room and a deck that overlooks that tall tree lining at the edge of the property. Colorful lights twinkle off of the walls. Your lungs inhale then let it go as your eyes filter over the stranger faces in the room. A girl spills her beer hooking her leg over her boyfriend’s waist but doesn’t rush to clean it up. A duo, wrapped around the hip, stumble up the stairs to the upper landing and the bedrooms. You scoff and  nearly stumble over a stretched ankle.  _ Where is he? _ And because you need to distract yourself, you rehearse.

        _We’ve known each other a long time._

          It’s brighter in the kitchen, blinding almost. You grin and twist towards the granite counter where a few bottles of open drink sit in the shine. Across the kitchen, you recognize someone from your karting days and wave to him. Thomas you believe his name was, but you can't  honestly remember. A short, blonde girl hands you a red solo cup and you wink before taking it  greedily into your hands. As you steal a sip, the bass of the music makes your heart thump faster.

        _You know that I care about you a lot_ _ . _

          Thomas has gotten a meter than the last time that you saw him all those years ago. He bounces towards you with a new found confidence in his swagger that comes with age.

    _Would you want to go out sometime?_

          “Esteban Ocon?”, he smiles with a brow raised in amusement.

        _No, that sounds stupid and cliche._

          “Tommy, Tommy,” you chide him, slapping him on the back in a effort to knock the air out of him. You talk about things that have passed, the years that have fallen between you and your careers. His hair has gotten darker, his frame broader. Far different from the timid boy who feigned that he was something larger than life on the race course.

          Thomas leans on the counter with his drink in hand. Someone who you presume to be his girlfriend is chatting it up across the room with another. “How long has it been?”, he flicks the hair out of his eyes.

          You smirk, “Too long.”

          “Why are you here?”, he takes a sip, his eyes flickering up your body with curiosity almost.

          _Him_ , you want to say. Instead you simper, “A friend.”

          A friend .

__

_           Not a thing else . _

          Thomas narrows his brows, “Who would that be?”

          You open your mouth to respond and for that small moment you have forgotten why you were there in the first place. You hear it called over your shoulder, tossed like a pebble across smooth water in the distance.

          “Esteban!”

          And you have never once forgotten how it sounded to hear your name spill off of his tongue.

          As you turn around to meet the voice, the tempo of the music shifts to a more slow tune. It sounds almost sad as it echoes off of the floorboards towards you. When his eyes meet yours, your teeth gnaw  harshly into the flesh of your inner cheek to contain yourself.  But you only see him for a second: those scarlet lips and constant half smile, the near innocence that paints his slow blinks . His arms wrap around your neck and the scent of roses and soft cologne greets you. You sense him smiling into your shoulder, “Tu es la.”

        _You are here_ _ . _

          It’s stupid and childish but you don’t want him to let go. When he  eventually pulls off your hands still cling to the back of his sweatshirt like a safety-net in a storm. “Pierre,” you beam,  playfully slugging him in his chest.

          “Comment ca va?  ”, you didn’t hear the question at first because you were too distracted by how the little fairy lights shined across his flushed cheeks .

        “Toujours,” always. You tip your head and he steps farther away from you to create space for passersby. “Et toi?”, he greets your eyes once again.

          Pierre shrugs. As usual, his kind and geniune smile remains. “Bien, although I haven’t seen your face very much these days," he bats his lashes.

          For now, you adore how much his mini actions mean to you. “Still racing in GP2 this year?”, your shoulders relax.

          “Oui, et toi… GP3?”, he admits a chuckle before hooking your elbow and leading you towards a quieter room out the doorway of the kitchen .

          “Yep.”

          But Pierre is never prone to boring conversation. You could tell him about rocks and flowers or some foreign prince and he would be able to carry on for several hours. You remember Mrs.  Gasly telling her youngest son to hold his tongue. But the conversation between you cools  slightly and you shift your attention to him. His eyes flicker out the window, it has begun to  lightly snow outside and it brims the glass. You chew on your lip and you reach over to place your hand over his. The small motion makes him hum high in his throat and shift his gaze down towards the interaction. His skin has always been warm,  _ why are your hands so cold? _ As a child, he’d grab yours and blow hot air onto them as though it could ever do any change.  Maybe it’s a habit because he still does it to this day.

          “What is that for?”, Pierre chuckles. The lucent breath of his laugh does more damage to you than anything ever has before.

          “Rien,” you squeeze his palm. You watch him tuck a tuft of long hair behind his ear and to do this he removes his hand from yours. You swallow  dryly as you sense throat closing up. You decide to say it: “Pierre--”

          Before you can, Pierre interrupts you by whipping his head over his shoulder. Abroad grin greets his expression. “He toi!”, and to meet the sound you follow his quick movement. You don’t recognize the stranger or the name at first. Pierre tugs him  tightly into his arms exactly as he did to you minutes before. There it comes first: the misty green of their eyes. The lighting of the room causes you to believe for a long moment they are brown: plain, dark and expressive as yours. But they aren’t. His eyes are green like a dot of olive paint with spots of ivory.

          “Oh!”, Pierre shifts away but he doesn’t step from him.  “Esteban,  c’est Charles; Charles, Esteban,” Pierre's hand meets the shorter boy's waist, tugging him farther into his side . He appears to cradle him as though he loved the feeling of his touch. You recognize it as trust.

          “Nice to meet you,” the second thing you notice about Charles--after the color of his eyes--is the innocent but naive kindness in them . He appears fragile as glass. He smiles not because he wants to but because he knows it is the polite and sweet thing to do.

          “This is Charles?”, you smirk and Pierre raises a brow. “Dear Pear never shuts up about you,” and don’t allow the ice in your meaning to reach your voice.

          When Charles smiled at you it made one feel as though they had deserved it.  Just being there, breathing and living was enough to warrant it. “Is that true?”, he tips his head and Pierre accommodates his eyes with a smile.  Their eyes greet for what seems like an eternity of soft expressions and comfortable glances . If you could go back, you would have told your foolish self to leave. But you don’t. You stand there studying Pierre’s hand on their hip and  slowly feel more and more alone. 

          “Why aren’t you drinking?”, you ease into the conversation, tossing a hand over the railing of the sliding glass door .

          “I have to drive the young one home,” he ruffles Charles’s hair which only causes him to slap his hand away. 

          But it takes only a slight analysis his flushed cheeks, soft nose and messy hair before it all clicks. “I remember you,” Esteban blinks, “From karting, a long time ago!” He’s a year younger than you, you recall forcing yourself to get along with him because he was nice. You grew to adore him. You don’t want to admit it, but at the time, he was far faster than you were. Another class, it seemed.

          “Oh!”, Pierre  suddenly shouts, “I have someone to introduce you to!” He glimpses behind him and grabs for Charles’ wrist, ripping him along  quickly .

          “Wait, Pierre!”, you shout after him.  For some unrecognizable reason your heart rate rises into your throat; your pulse echoes on the rim of your beer glass .

          “I’ll be back!”, he yells over the music, “I want to talk to you, we need to talk!”

          “But I have something to tell you--”

          “Me too!” he grins before disappearing into the crowd. Charles passes you a sympathetic smile as they leave.

          There you are: left rubbing your shoulder in a room full of strangers. All you have is a rehearsed speech and the alcohol in your hand. You sigh and slug the rest of your drink. Wiping the corner of your mouth, you put on your usual cocky smirk and saunter into the kitchen for another.

 

** ________________________________ **

****

** February 7th, 2015 || 10:30 p.m. **

 

          They’re playing the type of music you enjoy. Thomas tries to get you to dance but you shove him off with a laugh and him mentioning, “It’s your loss!” Your grin falls as soon as you leave his company. Your mind spins and you wait--like you always do--for Pierre to return. What desperate creatures love makes of us. You slide your eyes shut, a lump forming in the back of your throat and you wonder:  _will I ever say it to him? _ Perhaps that is your problem. You spend so long trying to forget that all you have done is wait. Wait and wait, and wait and--

          “Esteban?”, you snap your eyes open. Charles is standing in front of you with a cocked head and concern creasing the center of his brow. He shuffles  nervously when you do not make a move to reply, “Are you… okay?”

          You force a curt nod, “Yeah. I’m good.” You’ve always been quite good at lying, at getting people to believe your shallow smiles. Something in Charles’ features deviates as though he does not believe you.

          “What are you thinking about?”, he asks, hopping up to sit next to you on the edge of the counter.

          “What?”

          “What are you thinking about?”, he leans closer and you fragrance cinnamon or vanilla.

          “Oh,” you don’t recall anyone ever having asked you that before.  Anxiously , you rub a hand over the back of your neck, “Nothing important.”  The tone between the two of you mellows, becomes comfortable  just as the speaker runs in technical issues and the air is quiet with protest .

          “It is important to you?”, Charles forces you to meet his eyes.

          “Sure,” you try to brush it off by stealing another drink off of the counter behind you.

          “Then I guess it is important.”

          It made you feel warmer, his words. Breathes a bit of confidence into your chest.  _ I guess he  just has the way about him. _

          “Where are you staying? In town?”, you attempt conversation. Charles is the type that you can feel comfortable in silence with.

          “Oh, no,” he smiles  micheiviously , “With Pierre, he got us a  really nice hotel room.” He shakes his head, “Some big romantic gesture.”

          Your eye twitches in confusion.  _Romantic gesture?_ You don’t mean it, but it spills out of your mouth, “What do you mean by romantic gesture--”

          But the music picks up at that exact second. The walls bang with sound and Charles jumps away from you in shock. “Speaking of Pierre,” he fiddles  childishly with the end of his sleeve, “I have to go find him.”  Before leaving, he squeezes the bed of your wrist kindly and he disappears around the corner without a second glance or word .

          But what he said before makes you squeeze your hand into a fist and tighten your jaw. You want to throw your cup across the room and stomp your feet in frustration.  When you notice the plastic crushing between your fingers, you stop, take a slow breath and regain composure . An argument must have broken out in the living room because everyone clears the area where you are. Something sinks within you, pours over the floor. You slid onto the tile in it, placing your head  calmly between your knees. More than anything you hate being alone.  You fill your life with superficial people and parties in a desperate attempt to make yourself less and less alone .

          And love?

          It never fixes a damn thing.

** _______________________________ **

****

** February 7th, 2015 || 11:14 p.m. **

 

          What transpires next you’ll remember for the rest of your life and into old age.  Perhaps because it is the instance where everything  truly changed. It’ll all come to haunt you. His heated breath on your cheek and how your lips brushed the corner of his mouth. The sensation of his warm skin under the palm of your hand and how his fingers coiled in the chest of your sweater. His thigh against yours and the near hope in how you speak to him as though you were begging for something from him.  Almost two hours later you’ll sit with your head slammed against the steering wheel of your car and you’ll pray for the first time since childhood . You’ll wish you had left that room.  Because with his soft touches and your adoration of him comes the cold,  untimely sensation of a rejection you never received . All those touches become invalid, all you can imagine is his hands on another.

          Pierre  Gasly is bittersweet in a dangerous way. Oh so dangerous… oh so sad.

          “ Ta voiture? ”,  _ your car? _ When you see Pierre again he is alone for the first time that evening. As he approaches you on the outer balcony you straighten to receive him. He  is burrowed in the hood of his gray hoodie and his lashes blink dim and heavy over that sea of blue.

          “What about my car?”, you elbow him in the side with good humor.

          “Can I see it?”, he stuffs his frigid hands into the long pocket of his jacket.

          “ Bien sur. ”

          _Of course_ _ . _

__

_           Anything for you . _

          You hold the door open for him as you pass back inside through to the front door.  Maybe your hand brushes the small of his back as you head into the driveway.

          “ Putain! ”, Pierre exclaims once outside, “ Il fait trop froid! ” With a chuckle he huddles farther into his collar. It was snowing  delicately .  Picturesquely , the porch light illuminates all the flakes carrying in the air. The both of you crunch over the gravel towards the lonely street. The street lamps bless the curves of his lips, shine across the mess of his hair. A sea of weather glitters  infinitely like the stars. Stars for the both of you and  no one else .

          “ C’est la! ”, you slap a hand against the hood and rest on the fender with your arms over your chest.

          Pierre makes a sound of approval and slides a digit over the paint. “ Tres beau ,” he licks his lips.

          “Want to take a ride?”

          Pierre chortles and raises his eyes to you as if he didn’t believe you were serious at first. It’s a beacon of light among such winter darkness. His features shine up but then die, “I shouldn’t."

          “Pourquoi?”

          “Parce que…”

          “Parce que…?”

          He shakes his head, “I shouldn’t leave Charles by himself for too long.” His eyes filter to the frame of the house at the end of the gated driveway.

          “ Allons-y ,” you reach for his wrist with trust in your intentions,  “Ca ira.”

          For a moment as you tug him closer and your grip chains him, Pierre appears to consider it.  However , he shakes his head once again, “ Non ,  desole , Esteban, another time.”  You brush off your disappointment as he slides in besides you, his elbow knocking against yours . It felt like a sip of eternity, a breath of the open planets above on chilled voices. 

          “Do you remember the time that we broke into my school at night?”

          Pierre frowns, “Nope.”

          “It was the day after I let you try my kart for the first time, remember?”

          Pierre’s face brightens, “Now I do!” He raises his palms to the sky and little snowflakes land on the cusp of his skin. “I remember I twisted my ankle on that shitty little thing,” he grimaces. 

          You laugh  drowsily , “You started crying.”

          “No I didn’t! You did!”

          “What the hell are you talking about?”

          “You were a stupid seven year old who thought you had killed me!”

          “Oh, yeah,” you roll your eyes, “Dumb kid stuff.”

          “I don’t think it’s dumb,” he grunts, rubbing his hand over his upper arm. “It’s  just memories, I don’t think those are dumb.”

          “I suppose you’re right.”

          Pierre always had a warm air about him that somehow made everything alright. You admire that, his positive nature and the sun of his attitude. When you said that last thing, he turned and faced you, eyes wide and slow. You ambience the heat of summertime and late night fires. You stare over at him like he was art. But he peers past you now towards the forest and you keep your eyes on him hoping he will turns his back to yours.  You pray this time he won’t look away because it convinces you he could've been stargazing constellations in yours .

          “Pierre?”, your own voice breaks the silence.

          He angles his head with a hum, “Yes, Esteban?”

          “ Puis-je te demander quelque chose? ”,  _ can I ask you something. _

          “Can it wait until we are inside?”, he shivers, grabbing for your hand, “ Je gele! ”

          You nod in agreement and lead him out of the weather. Inside the heater greets you and Pierre hasn’t let go of your hand. You tug him closer and bring your mouth to his ear, “Upstairs." 

          Pierre doesn’t hesitate to follow you. In a foreign way, he does care for you but it’s the trust. Trust is the only reason he trails you up the stairs that night. You pick an empty room on the landing and shut the door behind you. Pierre flops onto his back on the bed with a satisfied moan, sliding his eyes shut. He sits up only as the bed  is weighed down when you sit beside him. A lamp in the corner is on and the drapes  are drawn to the absence of light. The both of you are hip to hip.

          “So,” Pierre sounds.

          “So."

          “What is it you wanted to ask me?”, he questions  sincerely .

          The hollow of your throat bobs  incessantly , almost in a frightened manner. “I thought you also had something to say?”, you recall that from hours ago. 

Reassuringly , he smiles, “I can tell you later. Yours seems important, is it not?”

          A sigh drips past heavy, yearning lips, “Sorta.”

          “Sorta?”, he raises a brow.

          Your tongue seizes. “Pierre…”, you feel his breath next to you arrive in little waves.  You could’ve died a happy man in that room when things seemed infinite and possibilities weren’t limited by your imagination . You’ve never been quite good with words, never found out how to make them sound beautiful like he did. So you place a hand on his knee, raising it ever so  slightly to his upper thigh. 

          Pierre gasps  sharply before shoving a hand to the front of your sweater. His fingers coil in the material. “ Que faites-tu? ”, he whispers,  _ what are you doing? _ But you don’t know that answer.  Uncontrollably , you force his jaw closer and your eyes wander over the line of his lips. You lean forward with a tip on his chin and your nails digging into his jeans.  You wonder if it’ll taste as you'd hoped: sunshine or morning light matching the free darkness that comes with night and careless, hungry breaths . But you only ever manage to brush the corner of his mouth before Pierre pushes you away. Your hand lands on the cover of the bed away from his leg.

          “What are you doing?”, he demands  sharply , holding his mouth. 

          Startled, you sit back and stare into the empty space between you. “Nothing,” you stammer out a weak lie. Something shatters within you, stabs into your muscle.

          Pierre softens, “Are you--Are you sure?”

          “Yeah…”, your throat hollows, “It was nothing at all.”

          He grins, “Good.” The bed lifts as he exits the room, heading towards the door. “How about I get us something to drink? I’ll meet you on the balcony,” but his simper is tight, almost superficial.

          You swallow,  _ I’ve had enough to drink _ . It’s Pierre, so you nod to him, “Go, I’ll meet you there.” He shuts the door behind him without a second glance.

          You sit still for a moment unmoving. Not a muscle quakes or a inch of you trembles. At first it comes as a whisper: “ Putain .” Then it gets louder, “ Putain .” Louder: “ Putain! ” With the last time you swear, your fist punches at the cement wall beside you. Immediately you regret it and draw your knuckles away for inspection. The final is quiet: “ Putain …" 

          _You_ _ really fucked up this time, Esteban. _

__

_           I know. _

          You hanker to shout at the top of your lungs and throw something out of the window. To smash the glass or crack a vocal chord.  Something other than sitting on the edge of a stranger’s bed with the memories of your lips on his cheek to carry you through the night .

 

****

** ___________________________ **

****

** February 7th, 2015 || 12:09 a.m. **

 

          Dorian is still awake when you call him. You’re standing in the shadowed driveway and it has stopped snowing.

          “Esteban… Why the fuck are you calling me?” , Dorian groans and you can hear the television in the background making up a storm.

          You’ve been biting on your nails--you know this because you have to remove your thumb from between your teeth to speak . “I fucked up, Dorian,” your breathing is shaky, “I fucked up  badly ." 

          He pauses,  “What did you do?”

          “Well… I--”

          “Did you kill someone?”

          “What? No--"

          “I told you my parents would come and get you! What the hell would you ever drive drunk?! Oh god now you’ll have to hide the body and everything, Esteban! You stupid, stupid--”

          “Shut up!” you interrupt, “I didn’t kill anyone and I'm not drunk.”

          “Oh.”

          “But I tried to kiss Pierre.”

          “Well.”

          “ Maybe even more than  just a kiss," your cheeks burn and your breath in the air reminds you of your first cigarette (also how much you hated it) . "And now I wish I had killed someone instead.”

          “Did you… ask him out?”

          “No,” for the first time in your life you crave that: a cigarette, “I didn’t.”

          “What happened… when you tried?”

          A hand drags roughly over your face, “He jumped away.”

          “That’s not good. But you… didn’t ask him out?”

          “No!”, you shout.

          “Jesus, sorry.”

          It’s silent. “Please,” you whisper, “Tell me what to do.”

          “Esteban--”

          “Please, you’ve always been better at this whole… kindness or fixing thing,”  maybe you have a type when it comes to picking best friends .

          "It’s too late to deal with your bullshit. How am I two years old and ten times wiser?”

Weakly you smile even though Dorian cannot see your expression, “Because you’re Dorian Boccolacci .  Et mon meilleur ami .”

          “Then le grande Dorian has  just one thing: stop being a pussy.”

          It takes you back some, “W-what?”

          “You’re being a coward. You never even asked him.”

          “ I think I should leave.”

          “If you leave, Esteban, you’ll never know. You’ll never know the answer.”

          “But--”

          “Do it.”

          “Dorian--”

          “Put me out of my misery, Esteban, you never shut up about him.  Just do it and get it over with.”

          You stomp your foot on a chunk of ice on the sidewalk, “And if… he says… no?”

          “You don’t take rejection  lightly do you?”

          “No. It doesn’t happen often.”

          “Well then. You know who to call. My parents always welcome you over although they don’t think you’re a good role model.”

          “Since when do your friends have to be role models?”

          “Good point.”

          “Thank you,” you muse  quietly , “For everything.”

          “Have fun.”

          The line ends and you take a clear breath before heading back into the house.

 

** __________________________________ **

****

** February 7th, 2015 || 12:15 a.m. **

 

          You hung up with Dorian and your joints are stiff with confidence. So much so that you barrel in through the front door resolving to tell Pierre once and for all. No regard for consequences crossed your brain. You push and press yourself through the crowd towards the sliding glass door. Everything appeared to smile upon you this time.  When you arrive at the secluded balcony at a far end of the living room where not another person is, you see Pierre’s shadow through the glass . You beam, stepping closer and reaching out a hand to move the door open. But before you do so, you pause. You pause because you realize he is not alone or waiting for you. There is someone else with him. Charles  is hunched beside him, staring out at the expense of their surroundings.  He has snowflakes in his hair and when turns his head to laugh at something Pierre says, the flakes falter like little white stars onto his shoulders . He looks like an child, warm eyes blinking to his future in the distance.

__

_           Do I look to him in same way? _

          You shake yourself out of your trance and move to open the door once again.  This time, when you hold yourself back it’s because Pierre smiles at Charles and slides a hand over his hip to drag him a little closer . Charles acts as though it is natural, like he’s comfortable and they’ve done this so many times before. It causes you to hold your breath in anticipation.  Charles rubs his hands together due to the cold and in one swift movement, Pierre gathers his fingers into his own and cups them . He lays a kiss on each of his knuckles, blowing hot air and you read this lips:

          “You’re hands are always so cold, love.”

          _He’s done that to me too_ . Your skin begins to burn. Charles seems pleased at this because he lifts a digit to Pierre’s chin and raises his wide eyes to his. He tilts his face and… kisses him. A quick peck and nothing more happens but it shatters you, cements your chest. Your first reaction is to brush it off:  _ their drunk, it’s a party, things such as this occur all the time _ _._ But then... your attention falls to the hand still on Charles’s hip. It makes you clench a fist over your mouth to hold something uncontrollable from the open air. Because you realize he used to do the same to you, he used to hold you the exact same way.

          But it was never the same.

          When he placed a hand on your lower back it made you feel safe, or that your feelings for him were valid in some sick away. You know Charles must feel the same way… protected.  What makes you stumbles away from the scene like a drunk man is that you come to the awful conclusion that you will never feel that way again . You will never believe that when he touches you he  truly is saying:  _ I love you _ .  But Charles glances to Pierre as though he holds the world; and Pierre to Charles like he is the greatest thing to have existed . Each tiny glance, those touches: that kiss on the knuckle, on his lips that hand on his hip, it says:

          _I love you_ .

          But you didn’t hear a damn word spoken.

          They cared for each other so  enduringly that they didn’t need words to fill the empty blanks. You realize, standing there with your teeth in your cheek and your stomach on fire: you’ll never feel that again. He never has, and never will look at you the way he looks to him. They have something you can never have. And in this long, petrified silence, you find the answer to your question. The one that’s been on your tongue for years. A lifetime it feels. Every word from him, each moment; every sigh and half smile: it left a mark on you. And you'll never have that hope again.

          So you step away, back through the house and the front door. You choose not to say anything instead. You get in your car and drive off, tires spitting gravel as you leave.

          There you are.  Sitting in the driver’s seat of your car with tears dripping  miserably off of your chin and a heavy melancholy in your chest . In the end, you should’ve seen it coming from miles away. But you didn’t. The panic has subsided and all you’re left with is the throbbing anger, the furious pulsation in your veins. It’s the type of agony that makes your throat hurt, that fills you with the a violent necessity. You want to you hit something over and over until you cannot feel your fingers. You remember that white scar on his collarbone or the little gap  in between his front teeth.  Even how the sun arrives whenever he smiles or that his blue eyes light up like little stars to another universe . You recall the flirtatious manner he moves his limbs or the furrow of his brows when he’s thinking very hard. A part of you, a small part, wishes that you had never met him at all. 

         You do a messy parking job an hour later and when the front door opens Dorian lets you without another word. It’s one thirty in the morning and you slide to the floor at the end of his bed, bringing your head between your knees. It aches, that you have so much inside of you with no way to pour it out. After a long moment, Dorian places a hand on the curve of your spine, runs his hand up and down.

          “Do you… want to… talk about it?”, he inquires  softly .  Viciously you shake your head and run your sleeve under your nose. “D’accord…”,  _ okay _ , he nestles in beside you and places an arm over your shoulder, “You don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”

          And you don’t.

          You don’t want to ever speak about what you saw.

          You’ll keep it to yourself for a lifetime you believe.

          “How about we go to bed?”, you lift your blurry eyes to him and his face is tight with concern.  Slowly , you nod and climb off of the floor. “ Ca ira ,” he whispers, pushing a pillow towards you. “ Just go to sleep and we’ll talk about it in the morning."

          You fall asleep in your own mess.  Words may shred soft skin but it is that silent, momentary glance and touch between them that did you in  eventually .

 

** ____________________________ **

****

** February 8th, 2015 || 11:34 a.m. **

 

          In the morning you awake near to noon with a bad taste in your mouth and your face puffed and throbbing. It takes you a minute as you clear the headache from your cranium and rise that you remember the night before. The room is empty but you catch voices downstairs in the Boccolacci kitchen. You sit up and find your phone on the bedside table next to a glass of water. But you’re not hungover so no aspirin. Nonetheless you have a headache and your stomach throbs with foreign life. You have three unread message and two missed calls.

          PG: Où êtes-tu allés?

          PG: Never got to talk!

          PG: Appelle-moi asap

          You hesitate and resolve to put your phone in your front pocket to join Dorian for breakfast but your better will isn’t enough to restrain you . You call Pierre  Gasly . It takes a long occasion for him to pick up and on the last ring before you hung up, he answers.

          “Esteban? Hey!”, The sound of his voice shocks you for a minute.  “Bonjour?”

          “Hey, Pierre…”, your voice sounds as though you’ve lived a thousand years.

          “I missed you last night. When did you leave?”

          Right after I saw you and him. “ Presque deux ,” you lie.

“Oh.”

          “Yep. 

          “Well, I should  probably tell you now instead of later,” he chuckles.

          Your heart skips a beat. “ Dis moi qoui? ”,  _ tell me what _ .

          “ Ce que je voulais avant! ”,  _ what I wanted to before _ , he says  excitedly .

          “Okay,” you clear your throat, “ Dites-moi .”  _ Tell me _ .

          “You remember Charles? From last night.”

          “Your… friend?”, you mouth.

          “Yeah…”, he pauses,  “Did you notice anything? Like… between us I mean.”

          “No.” You’ve never lied more in a single word in your life.  _ Do you mean that I saw how you cannot keep your eyes off of each other and every movement of his seems like a miracle to you? _

          “Well… we’re…” , he cliffs off.

          “ Quoi ?”

          “Seeing each other. Nous sortons ensemble.”

Maybe it was all you wanted was the confirmation. “That’s…”, terrible, evil, vile, disgusting, makes you want to throw up, “Great.  C’est genial , Pierre.” Another silence. “ Combien de temps? ”,  _ how long _ _,_ you clear your throat  awkwardly .

          _“_ _ Une annee. _ _”_ A whole fucking year. _“_ _ A few months more than a year. _ _”_ You feel your breathing kick up into a furious pace. You squeeze the sheets  in between your furious, clenched fingers.  _ “Esteban… tu es encore la?” _ ,  _ are you still there? _

          Do you even  really care anymore? You want to hang up but instead you unravel your fingers and take a deep breath. “ Oui ,” you say,  _I am still here_.

        _“What was it you wanted to tell me? Earlier, you had something to say. What is it?”_

          You don’t want to take too long to answer because a part of you doesn’t want him to hang up and leave. “Ah, that,” you sigh.

          You hate the way he talks to you, or how he cuts his hair and his tight sweatshirts.

          _“What is it?"_

          You hate the way he smiles and his scent of spices and coconut. 

          “Nothing important.” 

          Pierre chuckles,  _ “It seemed important to you.” _

          You hate the way he always seems right or how he has made you laugh and cry.

          “It’s not. Not anymore.”

          You hate when he’s not around.

          _“Are you… sure?”_ You pause and you hate that he made you call him.  _ “Esteban?"  _

          You slide your eyes shut, “Pierre…”

          You hate the sound of his voice.

          “Are you okay?”

          You hate that you love him or you want to tell him exactly how he makes you feel.

          “Yes, Pierre. I’m good.”

          You hate him too.

          _“Good,”_ he sounds relieved like a weight has lifted from his voice.  _ “I’ll talk to you soon, we don’t get to see each other a lot anymore.” _

__

Mostly you hate that you don’t hate any of these things about him.

          “I miss you,” and you see the room beginning to blur once again through the gaps of your fingers.

          _“Miss you too.”_

          Not even close. 

          “I’m happy for you, Pierre.” 

          Not even a little bit. 

          _“Thank you,”_  you hear his stupid, beautiful smile through the phone.

          Not even at all.

          “Goodbye, Pierre. Happy birthday.” 

          _"Thank you,_ _ ami _ _."_  And you wait on the line until there isn’t a sign of him.

          You only hate him because you always loved him. 

          You sit still a moment with an empty feeling until you stand and catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror by the door. You’re wearing the same clothes you were the night before: a black leather jacket and skinny jeans. Your features are duller today. The edges of your deep eyes aren’t quite as sharp as they always seem. Your lips are bright red from  being gnawed between your front teeth. Your hands have the imprint of veins that crave touch you’ve never  truly known. You close your eyes. 

          _Get a hold of yourself, Esteban_ _ .  _

          When you open them again you’re in the same as you were before: exhausted.  Maybe you should go back to sleep for another day. But what’s the use in moping? You want to do the impossible thing of remembering and forgetting him at the same time. You could spend your hours pretending that you hate him or you could recognize Pierre for what he is. 

          A painful but indescribable miracle of your life.

          And you’ll always love him for that.

          No matter how much you pretend you don’t.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Well! I hope you enjoyed! My Tumblr is @pieregasly and I love comments! Just imagine all the hard work and hours and stuff that goes into writing this free content for y'all! This is why comments are great, don't be nervous, really, creators crave comments. Thank you! Kudos are nice too, it makes me want to write more for y'all 
> 
> TRANSLATIONS  
> \- Pierre m'a envoyé un texto aujourd'hui = Pierre sent me a text today  
> \- Vraiment? = Really?  
> \- Oui = Yes  
> \- Sa maison = His house  
> \- Jaloux= Jealous  
> \- un petit ami = a little friend  
> \- D’accord = okay  
> \- Je sais = I know  
> \- Pourquoi? = why?  
> \- Parce que tu ne gardes jamais le silence sur lui = Because you never keep quiet about him  
> \- Arret! = Stop!  
> \- Non! = No!  
> \- Chose = Thing  
> \- Qu'as-tu fait de lui? = What did you do with him?  
> \- Parce que tu es mon ami = because of you're my friend  
> \- Comment ca va? = How are you?  
> \- Baise = Fuck  
> \- Il fait trop froid! = It is too cold!  
> \- C’est la! = It's here!  
> \- Tres beau = Pretty  
> \- Pourquoi = Because  
> \- Parce-que se = Because  
> \- Allons-y = Let's go  
> \- Ca ira = It's fine  
> \- Desole = Sorry  
> \- Je gele! = I'm freezing!  
> -


End file.
